


Four Times Stiles Eats Shit in Front of Derek and One Time He Doesn't

by fallenhurricane



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, I don't know what else to tag, I'm Sorry, M/M, Scott and Isaac and Allison are barely in this tbh, mention of scott/allison - Freeform, this fic is a MESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 21:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17968562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenhurricane/pseuds/fallenhurricane
Summary: Stiles falls a lot. And somehow, Derek is always there to help him up.





	Four Times Stiles Eats Shit in Front of Derek and One Time He Doesn't

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I'm sorry. I don't know what this is. I haven't written fic in a long time and I had a sudden need, y'know? 
> 
> I love college fics, so that's where this came from. I also love one shots in the "four times and one time" format.
> 
> Anyway, this is a mess, and I apologize, but I hope it's entertaining in some sort of way.

**One**

It’s the first day of the first semester, and it’s already going to shit. Stiles is running late for his 9:30 physics class, which is stupid, because he had specifically chosen it because it isn’t an 8am. But Scott came over last night, upset because Allison wasn’t answering her phone and what if she was mad at him or something had happened and Stiles isn’t the kind of person to just shut his best friend down in a time of need. Even if Stiles’ roommate, Nick, had given them a pointed side-eye until they had moved to the third floor common area to finish their discussion so that he could finally get some sleep.

 

Anyway, Scott didn’t go back to his dorm until a little past four in the morning when he got a text back from Allison. She apologized and explained that she had been sleeping since she’s on vacation with her parents in fucking Majorca and, honestly, that should’ve have been Scott’s first idea but he’s not always rational when it comes to her.

 

Stiles’ finally fell asleep around five, and despite the first-day jitters he was feeling, he slept soundly. He snored through Nick’s alarm, which went off at seven, and then hit snooze on his own when it sounded at eight. He had planned to just relax for a second before getting up, showering, and heading to class. Instead he immediately dozed off, missed his alarm blaring again, and didn’t wake up until Nick barged back into the room after his 8am.

 

“Stiles, wake the fuck up.”

 

“I dun-”

 

“Your phone says your alarm’s been going off for an hour and a half.”

 

“SHIT.”

 

So, yeah. He’s running late for his 9:30 class, and literally running to get there. His backpack is bouncing on his shoulders and he’s gripping his sweatshirt and textbook in his fists as he glances down both sides of the street and sets off across it at a brisk jog.

 

He’s almost at the opposite sidewalk when a voice calls, “Dude, watch out!” Stiles jerks around and sees a cyclist twisting her handlebars violently to dodge him. He takes a step back instinctively, his heel hitting the curb, and he goes sprawling backwards, hands spread out to catch him. Stiles is vaguely aware of his book and hoodie falling somewhere beside him as his palms scrape along the concrete, his butt slams into the ground, and he hisses. His backpack stops his head from nearing the sidewalk, but he can already feel the subtle ache radiating up his back from his ass.

 

“Holy shit,” he says, catching his breath and looking around him. The area is largely, blessedly, empty but two girls waiting at the crosswalk are staring at him. He grimaces and waves with a vaguely bloody hand. “I can teach you to do that, if you want.”

 

A snort from behind him alerts him of someone else’s presence, and he cranes his neck awkwardly to see a broad-shouldered dude with dark hair, short scruff, and black plastic glasses watching him. When they make eye contact, the man says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to fall. You alright?” and moves around to Stiles’s front, holding out a hand to help him up. Stiles recognizes his voice as the one that called out to warn him of the cyclist.

 

Stiles brushes his hands together, watching as tiny pebbles fall into his lap. He takes the man’s hand and is surprised when he pulls Stiles up with hardly any effort. “Yeah, thanks, I’ll be fine.” He glances at his watch and groans. It’s already 10, and he’s already 30 minutes late to class.

The man is quirking an eyebrow at him, then bending over to grab Stiles’ things that he’d dropped. He holds them out.

 

“Somewhere to be?”

 

“I was supposed to be in class half an hour ago.” Stiles takes his book and hoodie, ignoring the warmth of the other man’s hands when their fingers brush against each other’s, and nodding his thanks. “Now I don’t know if it’s even worth it to go.”

 

The man shrugs, his Henley-clad shoulders raising towards his ears. “Honestly it’s probably not a huge deal if you miss it, unless it’s major-specific. It’s the first day of class. Are you a freshman?” At Stiles’ nod, he adds, “You’ll be missing getting a physical syllabus and maybe some other handouts.” He nods towards Stiles’ hands. “But you probably want to go wash up before you do anything else.”

 

Stiles looks at one of his stinging palms, cradling his book and jacket in the crook of his elbow. A thin line of blood is dripping down towards his wrist and the rest of his hand looks raw from where it rubbed across the concrete. “Yeah, probably.” He sighs. “Thanks again, dude.” And with that he’s hitching his backpack up across his shoulders. The man nods and wanders down the sidewalk, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. Stiles watches him walk away for a moment before turning to wait at the crosswalk where the two girls had been, his mind reeling. 

**Two**

It’s the third week of school, and besides the small mishap on the first day of classes, things have been going pretty well. Scott and Allison have fallen into a routine of video chatting every other day, now that she’s back from Majorca and has started her semester at San Diego State, almost two hours away. Stiles has been texting his dad regularly, reminding him to eat well and not get take out every night, and the sheriff has replied with various emojis that make Stiles roll his eyes and curse Scott for teaching him how to use those.

 

Anyway, since things have been going pretty well, it both surprises Stiles and doesn’t when he completely embarrasses himself in the market place one night.

 

Scott and his roommate, Isaac, are already digging into their food in the small cafe while Stiles carries his plate of salad and cup to the soda fountain. He’s on his way back to sit with them when his foot slips out from under him, and he feels himself falling. It happens fast, and by the time Stiles is aware of what’s happened, his plate and cup are upside down, food and drink spilled on the floor around him, and he’s perched on one knee, in a proposal sort of pose. His hands are on the ground in front of him. He takes stock of his lost meal and his sore pride and shakes his head, sighing. He doesn’t even bother looking around him, not wanting to see the faces of those watching, before righting the plate and beginning to pick up the pieces of salad he’d dropped. Two hands come into his view and join him, smoothly sweeping up pieces of lettuce.

 

“You alright?”

 

The voice is somewhat familiar. Stiles looks up and sees him, the same guy who was there when he fell on the sidewalk. Well, that’s fucking embarrassing. Stiles gapes at him before mumbling, “I promise I’m not always this clumsy.”

 

The man smiles, but he doesn’t meet Stiles’ gaze. Instead, he produces some napkins and starts mopping up the spilled drink with careful swipes. “I never said you were.”

 

Stiles huffs. The man’s smile widens and Stiles can see small smile lines behind his glasses. They’re pretty cute, if he’s honest. “Well, if you’re going to make a habit of being here every time I embarrass myself, we might as well be introduced.” Stiles drops some more salad onto the plate, brushes his hand off on his pants, and holds it out. “I’m Stiles.”

 

The man leaves the napkin on the floor for a second to shake Stiles’ hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says, before finishing his mopping job. He watches as Stiles picks up a couple of stray pieces of pepper, then rises to his feet, holding the corner of the dripping napkin. “See you around, Stiles.” He turns and Stiles watches him leave, dropping the napkin in the trash on his way out the door.

 

“See you,” Stiles says, an automatic response even if it’s delayed, before realizing the man had never shared his name. He rolls his eyes, stands up, and upends his plate into the garbage can nearby before going to join Scott and Isaac.

**Three**

It’s been a fairly successful semester, Stiles thinks. He passed all his midterms, and even though Nick and he don’t always get along (Stiles stays up too late and talks to loudly, and Nick’s girlfriend is over all the time), they haven’t had a major fight. He hadn’t missed another class, since the first day, except for the week that he had strep, and those had been excused by his professors leaving Stiles to do make up work from his bed, cradling a hot mug of tea and a popsicle and texting Scott every five minutes.

 

Despite the decent flow of the semester, Stiles is ready for the break and to head back to Beacon Hills for Christmas, but he has one more week of class and finals to deal with first. As it goes, he’s clutching a pile of textbooks and has his backpack slung over his shoulders. Isaac and Scott are holed up in the library, prepping for finals, and Stiles’ sociology class had just let out, so he’s heading over to meet them.

 

He’s walking through the stacks at a quick pace and is texting Scott asking where he and Isaac are when it happens. Again. His eyes are glued to his phone as Scott’s text appears and he completely misses the metal shelving cart sitting in the stacks until he’s crashed into it. The cart topples with a bang, the rows of books spilling out and scattering around the floor in various states of openness, and Stiles lands half on top of it. His texts and phone go flying from his hands and skittering across the carpet. “Ah, fuck,” he bites out, a hand clutching at his hip where a caster digs into his skin.

 

Stiles is rolling himself off the cart and onto his feet when he hears someone approaching from the other side of the aisle, where he was heading. “You alright?”

 

Well shit. It’s him again, Stiles knows, recognizing the gentle voice, not to mention the words, the same words said over and over. “Hey, dude,” he says, sighing. He doesn’t look up to see the man’s face, no doubt grinning at him. He’s too tired to deal with this; it’s too close to Christmas and freedom and sleep. Stiles focuses on righting the metal cart instead. It tips upright with a creak that seems to blare throughout the building. “For fuck’s sake, why is everything so loud?”

 

The man snorts and crouches down, begins sticking books back onto the cart. Stiles chances a look at him and sees his eyes crinkled behind his glasses and his biceps almost bulging against the sleeves of his v-neck. The man’s gaze shoots up to meet Stiles’, and Stiles coughs and bends over to pick his textbooks out of the mess. He grabs his phone from where it landed next to the cart and shoves it into his pocket.

 

“So…” Stiles says, cringing at the awkward lilt in his voice. “You always happen to be around when this shit happens.”

 

The man hums in amusement. He piles the last of the books onto the cart and stands. “This doesn’t happen more often?” Stiles’ eyebrows furrow and the man raises his hands, “I mean, I don’t think your clumsy, I just-”

 

“It’s fine, dude. But no, I’ve literally fallen three times this semester and you were there for all of them.” He shifts his textbooks so that they’re under his arm, and runs his hand over the back of his head. “Honestly it’s embarrassing.”

 

The man shakes his head, his hands in his pockets. He looks smaller than he did a moment ago, despite standing. “It’s not, it happens to everyone.”

 

“Except you?”

 

“I fall plenty. Just not in front of you, apparently.”

 

“Apparently.” Stiles’ phone buzzes from his pocket and he checks it to see a text from Scott. “Ah, uh, I gotta go,” he says, gesturing to the other side of the stacks. “Gotta meet up with a friend to study.”

 

“Sure thing,” the man says, stepping aside so that Stiles can get by. Stiles eels by, careful not to brush against him, hunching his shoulders together. As he leaves the aisle, the man says, “See you, Stiles.”

 

And dammit, Stiles forgot to get his name again.

 

**Four**

The rest of the fall semester had gone by without incident, and the spring semester had started smoothly. Stiles enjoys his new classes - statistics, chemistry, anthropology, psychology, and English literature - enough and Nick has transferred schools over the break to be closer to home, meaning that, for the time being, Stiles has a double to himself. He feels a little bad about it, but not bad enough to advertise the fact to other freshmen looking for new roommates.

 

Scott has tried out for the school’s lacrosse team, and of course he made it. Isaac did, as well. Stiles decided to sit this one out, because he wants to pursue other things with the time that lacrosse would take up. He just hasn’t decided what yet.

 

He had promised Scott that he wouldn’t miss a single home game, though, and that’s how he finds himself spending a Friday night at the top of the crowded bleachers at the third game of the season. Scott and Isaac are on the bench, as they have been for most of the season so far, but they’re leaning forward, cheering on their team, as invested as ever. Stiles is scrolling through his phone, swiping around on a couple of dating apps and texting Lydia, a friend from high school who’s studying at Princeton. She had gone to a party tonight and is bemoaning the lack of suitable smart and attractive men that had been there.

 

At the end of the second quarter, they’re up 3-1, so Stiles stands up and decides to head down the bleachers to go use the bathroom and buy a pretzel from the concession stand behind the field. He elects to climb over the rows ahead of him, where it’s somewhat empty, instead of squeezing in front of parents and classmates to the stairs. Stiles has only made it down only a couple of rows when somebody behind him shifts, jostling him, and he loses his balance. He throws a hand out to stop his plunge, and finds it connecting with the hard metal of a row below him. He lets out a small cry of pain as he comes to a stop in an awkward heap, partly on the base of a row of the bleachers and partly on the bench of seats in front of it.

 

“Stiles -”

 

Stiles hisses in pain as somebody shifts him, but he gathers his feet below him and lets himself be led to the stairs and down, first to the gravel in front of the bleachers and then to the grass next to it. The hands holding his bicep loosen a bit, and Stiles hunches over, cradling his hand. “Shit.”

 

“Stiles, are you alright?”

 

Stiles grimaces. He had blindly assumed that the person who had grabbed him was Scott, but that doesn’t make any sense now that he thinks more about it. Scott wasn’t even paying attention to the stands, and wouldn’t have heard the ruckus from the players’ bench even if he hadn’t been so enveloped in the game. Nah, this was _him_ : the man who only ever sees Stiles fall.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Who are you?”

 

The man’s brows furrow, his hand still on Stiles’ shoulder gripping his hoodie. “What?” He doesn’t sound hostile, just confused and maybe a bit concerned.

 

“I mean,” Stiles corrects, standing up straight and mentally assessing his body. His hand and wrist hurt, like, _a lot_ , and he had obviously banged his knees up as they were throbbing painfully. Other than that he was achey and sore pretty much everywhere, but nothing too notable. “I mean, you know I’m Stiles and that I fall a lot, but you never gave me your name.”

 

“Oh, right,” the man breathes out. He removes his hand and sticks it into his pocket. For a moment, Stiles misses the warmth through his jacket, but he pushes the thought from his mind. “For a second I thought you hit your head - but you’re right, I never introduced myself. I’m Derek, I’m a junior.” Stiles nods, and his head hurts and so do his shoulders, and he lets out a groan, and Derek reaches out and gently grabs his bicep again. “Are you - do you want to go to the clinic, maybe?”

 

“Isn’t the clinic closed by now?”

 

Derek shrugs. “They have a small emergency center. Nothing like the ER, but you could at least get that looked at.” He waves his other hand towards Stiles’ wrist, which is already red and swollen.

 

Stiles has to admit that it doesn’t sound like the worst idea. He looks back towards the field, but the game has started again, and Scott’s sitting on the edge of the bench, enraptured. At least he had been spared embarrassment on that front. He won’t miss Stiles if he heads out, and he’ll text him explaining later. “Yeah, okay, I’ll head over there.”

 

“I’ll walk with you.”

 

**Five**

It’s May before Stiles runs into Derek again. He had thought he wouldn’t see him again at all this year but he’s heading to a tutoring session for English lit - what can he say, it’s a hard class - when it happens.

 

Stiles has his earbuds in, Panic! At The Disco weaving through the wires, his hands in his pockets and his backpack tossed over his shoulders. He’s heading through the center of campus when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of yellow and then a blur as something falls to the ground. A dog, a golden retriever, he thinks, was the yellow, but the blur - he pulls his headphones out and heads in the direction of the chaos.

 

“Navi, get off me.” And it’s Derek, the blur, laying on the concrete, hands in front of his face as the dog jumps around him, tongue lolling. Stiles snorts at the sight and the dog - Navi, Stiles guesses - turns, bouncing over to him instead. He lets her sniff his hand and then rubs her ears.

 

“Whatcha doing down there?” he asks, grinning at Derek. The other man is sitting up now, watching Stiles play with the dog. He raises his eyes to where Stiles’ are looking at him and smiles.

 

“Just, y’know, hanging out.” His eyes crinkle behind his glasses again as he gestures to the concrete around him.

 

“Uh huh.” Navi digs her snout into Stiles’ hand when he stops petting her to help Derek up. He laughs. “You have a dog?”

 

“Navi’s my sister’s,” Derek answers, taking Stiles’ hand but using his own strength to stand. He pauses before dropping Stiles’ hand, which Stiles pretends not to notice but really, _really_ , does. “I was walking her, and she escaped her collar.” He gestures to a collar on the ground, leash still attached. “Luckily, she obeys commands pretty well, but” - he pauses as Navi bounds back over to him, stands on her back legs, and perches against his shoulders - “well, she’s kind of excitable.”

 

Stiles laughs again, watching Navi’s tongue slurp up Derek’s neck as the other man wrinkles his nose. “Well, Navi,” he says, and Navi drops back down to the ground and rolls on her back in front of him, “I thank you for evening the playing field a little. Now that I’ve seen your uncle fall.” He tosses a grin up to Derek as he kneels to rub the dog’s belly.

 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, too, thanks for asking.” Stiles’ grin widens at Derek’s joking tone and Derek kneels down beside Navi, too. “Where were you headed?”

 

“Tutoring session,” Stiles answers. “I’m probably late now, but it’s no big deal. I’d much rather hang out with Navi.”

 

“What class?” Derek asks, brow furrowed.

 

“English lit 202. It’s honestly no big deal, I just need to review some of our readings.” He leans back onto his heels, waving his hand in gesticulation. “I’m not great at focusing, you know?”

 

Derek pauses where he’s petting Navi for a second. The dog’s eyes are closed, and she seems relaxed under all the attention. He looks up at Stiles. “I can help, if you want,” he offers. “I’m an English major.”

 

Stiles stares at him, trying not to be obvious when his eyes trail down Derek’s biceps and land where his chest is firm against his t-shirt. “Wait, really?” Derek raises a single eyebrow. Okay, so maybe Stiles hadn’t been subtle. “I mean, sorry, I just kind of imagined you were an exercise science major or something.”

 

“UC Irvine doesn’t even offer that,” Derek points out, smirking. He reaches behind him and grabs Navi’s collar, slipping it back onto the dog and buckling it a bit tighter, then checking to make sure it isn’t too tight.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Stiles rolls his eyes, watching Derek’s fast fingers. He stands up and Derek does the same. “You’ll really help me though?”

 

Derek nods and pulls his phone from his back pocket. “Ah, shit.” Stiles sees the large crack dancing across the screen. “Navi, your mom owes me.” He unlocks the phone and opens it to a new contact page, then hands it over to Stiles.

 

Stiles types in his info and hands the phone back over. “Thanks, dude.”

 

Derek nods and smiles, clutching Navi’s leash in his hand. “I’ve gotta get Navi home.”

  
"Okay.”  
  
Stiles is halfway back across campus, having decided against the tutoring session, when his phone dings. He unlocks it to see a text from a new number. _See you around, Stiles._ What a dork. He grins and shoves his phone back into his pocket. 


End file.
